“Ah, well, miss, I dare say you doant like to hear ’um
blamed, but ’ees not like his reverence, and will never fill his shoes.”
An observation which brought the color into her cheeks more than once.
“Belike, miss, ye doant know Mr. Ufford was gone over to the Abbey yesterday?” said one old gossip to her; to which Gwyneth replied, with as much unconcern as possible, she did not: but there was something in the tone and manner which startled her.
The second morning of Mr. Duncan’s illness brought Gwyneth a note from Isabel. She was sitting with Hilary beside her father’s bed, when it was placed in her hand. She opened and read it; then silently laying it down before her sister, she left the room.
Mrs. Hepburn hurriedly perused it. It was to announce, in most graceful and well-chosen words, the fact that she was engaged to Mr. Ufford. She was sure the intelligence would interest her friends at the Vicarage.
Hilary had hardly time to understand this announcement, and none at all to calculate its effects on Gwyneth, when her attention was called to her father. He awoke suddenly, in such intense pain, that every thought had to be given to his relief. She was obliged to summon more help, and Gwyneth, hearing the subdued bustle, came out of her room. Her countenance was white as marble, and almost as composed as a statue; there was no other sign of emotion than the shadow under her eyes; her whole attention was devoted to her father; and her energy was astonishing. The alarm of the daughters was great, though intensely quiet; and an urgent message was sent to the apothecary to come immediately. Much to their relief, he was met near the house, and hurried forward. Every application which skill could devise, or care employ, was made use of to relieve the patient; but for hours the sisters, though working with untiring energy, saw no beneficial result. At length, however, there came a cessation of pain, followed by sleep.
Now Gwyneth insisted Hilary should rest. She had been up
the whole of the preceding night; she must take repose. Gwyneth’s black eyes burned with a fever fire as she spoke; her cheeks were white, but her hand did not tremble, nor her lip falter.
“And you, Gwyneth,” said Hilary, kissing her, as she listened to her low, yet impressive whispers; “do you not want rest?”